


breathless

by sterlingsparrow



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Trans Javert, a bit pre-valvert, don't follow javert's example when it comes to binding it's not safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 01:08:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingsparrow/pseuds/sterlingsparrow
Summary: Javert's binding practices are not advisable ones.





	breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Valjean is... a civilian helping the police in this au? Training to be a cop? It's not exactly clear, I'm sorry.

The pressure on Javert’s chest is awful, so tight he can barely breathe, and he gasps for breath. He stumbles to a stop, supporting himself against the wall. His vision is plagued with dark spots already.

“Javert!” Valjean’s voice rings in his ears. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

He closes his eyes. “I… fine. Need to catch my breath.Go… go on without me, Valjean.”

“All right.”

From the tone of Valjean’s voice, he clearly doesn’t think anything is _all right_ , but the sound of his footsteps resumes. They pick up again and vanish.

Javert slides down the wall, panting.

He _knows_ he’s not supposed to wear a binder while exercising, but he’s not exactly at the gym. Being a cop isn’t a desk job, yes—but most days there’s nothing that could pose a problem to his health. That’s what Javert’s told his doctor, anyway.

It’s not like he can show up to work _without_ a binder on.

“Javert.”

Javert opens his eyes to see Valjean, crouching before him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Valjean says slowly.

“Did you… did you decide to come back for me?” he manages. “Give up the… chase?”

“Javert, are you sure you’re _fine_?”

“Why?”

“Because I left you here twenty minutes ago,” Valjean says, his brow furrowed. He kneels beside Javert. “The man’s been arrested; I called Beaufort to come pick him up. Then I came back for you.”

“You don’t… have the authority to make ar… arrests,” Javert gasps out. The man gives a slight, wry smile.

“ _Beaufort_ arrested him, not me.” He tests Javert’s temperature with the back of his hand. “You were supposed to be there to make the arrest, anyway. What happened?”

Javert leans his head against the wall. “Not… much.”

“Not much—Javert, you can hardly breathe, and you didn’t realize I’d been gone for twenty minutes! I wouldn’t call that _not much_!”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insists, trying to rise. The point is rather undercut by how he cannot quite get his legs under him, and instead stumbles against the wall before sinking to a sitting position again. “Just give me a… a minute to rest.”

“You’ve had twenty minutes to rest. I’ve half a mind to call an ambulance,” Valjean mutters. He wraps an arm around Javert’s middle to pull him to his feet.

The touch is so close to his aching ribs, so close to his binder that it sets off alarms in his head. Javert jerks away, flattening himself against the wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps. “I… don’t _fucking_ touch me.”

Valjean’s face is set in what could almost be called a scowl. “Why shouldn’t I? You look half-dead, Javert, it seems like a miracle you’re even standing upright—” 

“Because I don’t want you to touch me!”

Valjean freezes.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a moment. “I should have asked. But I… I’m worried about you right now.”

“Don’t be,” Javert grinds out. He wobbles a bit and grabs the wall behind him. This time, Valjean puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, not his chest; Javert feels himself sigh with relief as much as the binder will allow.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” Valjean tells him. Javert tenses.

“No.”

Valjean looks at him steadily. “Yes. If you don’t want me to touch you, I understand—and trained medical professionals can help you more than I ever could. You’ve been like this for almost half an hour.”

“ _No_.” His vision is swimming; he’s slipping towards the ground again. “If you call a _fucking ambulance_ , Valjean, I swear to God…”

“You’ll do what? Gasp at me?” Valjean is pulling his phone out of his pocket already, and Javert can only swipe weakly in its direction.

He shakes his head violently. “Please. Please, no ambulance—Valjean, I can’t…”

The man pauses. “You can’t what?”

“Can’t… use an ambulance,” Javert whispers. His ribs hurt so badly he can hardly think of anything else. He presses a hand to his chest without thinking, fingers scrabbling at the binder. Valjean’s gaze follows the movement.

“Javert?” he asks. He crouches down again. “Javert, what’s wrong with your chest?”

“None of your… business,” Javert gasps out, turning away. Valjean’s hands land on his shoulders, force Javert to look at him.

“What’s wrong with your chest?” he asks again. Javert simply flashes a middle finger in reply.

Valjean’s mouth twists. “Okay,” he mutters, one hand moving to the collar of Javert’s button-down, “it seems like I’m going to have to figure this out myself.”

“Valjean… Valjean, no, please don’t…”

He can’t even muster the energy to protest properly. _Pathetic._

“I’m sorry,” Valjean says, and it sounds like he really is. He tips their foreheads together. “But I have to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

Javert shakes his head mutely. Valjean sighs and begins to undo the buttons.

“No!”

Javert grips at his wrist, but the man throws him off easily. “No, no no—Valjean _please_ leave me alone, just… take me home or something, don’t… don’t—”

“A binder?”

Javert sags against the wall, his struggles for naught. A part of him wants to cry.

Valjean stares at his chest. “Javert, you—how long have you been wearing this?”

He gives a breathless little laugh. “How… long… have we been on that… guy’s tail?”

“Sixteen hours.” A look of horror dawns on Valjean’s face. “Javert, you—”

Javert doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence. The binder is too tight, his ribs ache too much, his vision is spotty. He feels dizzy.

“You can call that ambulance,” Javert gasps, then slumps forward into Valjean’s arms. 

He wakes up in a hospital bed, Valjean sitting beside him.

It is not an altogether new experience. This time, however, Javert passed out because of his binder, not water in his lungs. Valjean sits beside him not as the man who pulled him from the river, but his case partner.

“Sixteen hours.” Valjean’s voice is shaking. “Sixteen _goddamn_ hours with that on—I cannot _believe_ you.”

“I was… caught up in the case,” Javert mumbles. “I won’t forget next time.”

He pushes himself to a sitting position gingerly, and it is only then that he realizes the absence of pressure on his chest. His blood runs cold.

Javert throws his arms over his chest. “What the fuck happened to my binder?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone—” He stares at Valjean, anger bubbling up in his veins. “What do you mean, _gone_? I… own _two_ binders, Valjean, I can’t afford to…”

Valjean closes his eyes. “They had to cut it off you. One of the doctors thinks it was a size too small—God, you _fool_ —”

“Fuck off,” Javert snarls. Valjean looks at him wearily.

“I want to pay for your top surgery.”

He freezes. “What?”

“I want to pay for your top surgery,” Valjean says again. He leans forward, putting a hand on the bed. “How long have you been binding?”

He struggles to remember. “Since I… was twenty-three, I think.”

“Over twenty-five years.” Valjean shakes his head. “And what, you never thought of getting top, or—”

“I’m not made… of money.”

His face softens. “Too expensive.”

Javert nods exactly once.

“Look. I have plenty of money left over from my days as Madeleine, more than enough, and I want to pay for it.” Valjean takes one of Javert’s hands in his own. “What do you say?”

“Why?” Javert asks slowly. The man’s mouth thins into a firm line.

Valjean reaches up with his free hand, popping the top button of his own shirt, then the next, and the next, and the next. When his shirt finally hangs open, he pulls the fabric to one side.

There’s a pair of reddish scars on his own chest. Javert finds his eyes glued to them.

“I had it done when I was Madeleine,” Valjean is saying, voice quiet. “I… I know what it’s like, to have to bind every day. _I want to help you, Javert_.”

He tears his eyes away from the scars at last to meet Valjean’s eyes. His face is earnest,so kind. _Curse him_.

“Always… always a hero,” Javert manages. He takes the deepest breath his chest will allow. “But yes. Thank you, Valjean. Thank you.”

Valjean’s face breaks into a smile. “Of course.”

He leans forward again as if to hug Javert, shirt still open, then seems to think better of it. He squeezes Javert’s hand instead.

Javert closes his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers again.

His chest still hurts, God it hurts. But he can breathe at last.


End file.
